


Wild Horses Can't Be Broken

by Malivrag



Category: Faster Pussycat, L.A. Guns (Band)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Train Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 10:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malivrag/pseuds/Malivrag
Summary: Everyone who met Tracii Guns thought they could handle him. They thought, I got this guy's number. And every one of them has been wrong...





	Wild Horses Can't Be Broken

If he's being perfectly honest, when the A&R people approached him about the L.A. Guns gig, he wasn't overly impressed with Tracii Guns. Not at first sight. And not because he didn't want the gig. He did, badly. He was beyond broke, and everything he owned fit into a busted suitcase. Phil Lewis was dangerously close to being tossed on the scrap heap of failed rock stars, and he knew it.

He had no problem showing up that horse-faced singer. No mystery as to why Tracii Guns had asked for Phil Lewis by name when the A&R people asked about replacing Paul Black. L.A. Guns was going nowhere with that as the frontman. Phil sniffed disdainfully at Paul's picture, showed up at the audition and blew away Paul's singing, Paul's lyrics, and Paul's band. Phil Lewis could bring L.A. Guns what they'd been lacking: charisma, swagger, vocals.

Phil turned a critical eye on the rest of the band. Kelly Nickels turned up to fill in the bassist spot, and Mick Cripps moved to rhythm guitar. The drummer had to go, and go he did, and Steve Riley stepped in. At last, a band that Phil could work with.

And then there was Tracii.

Tracii was incredible. If by some black magic, Phil could steal his soul and his guitar-playing prowess, he could singlehandedly make himself the biggest rock star on the planet. But Phil's first impression of Tracii was of a happy, smiling, peace-sign flashing California boy a head shorter than him. Even covered in tattoos and with his thick, skunk-striped hair teased to its breaking point, Tracii hardly had the overwhelming stage presence of Slash or Phil's old bandmate, Phil Collen.

Phil loved beauty. He had a keen sense of the fine, the aesthetically pleasing, an artist's eye for symmetry and balance. Runty Tracii with his acne-scarred cheeks would never be beautiful. He could never compare to some of the daydream-gorgeous rocker boys; the rebels with sex appeal honed to a fine edge by their addictions; the ones with cheekbones for days like Kelly.

Happy, smiling Tracii welcomed Phil into the band by wrapping his arms around his waist, proclaiming them best friends, and dragging Phil to every dive bar and strip club on the Sunset Strip. Phil laughed and patted him on the head, fond of him as one might be of a younger brother.

"Hey man," someone might say to Tracii. "Why didn't you stick with Axl? The band has your name in it. You two were inseparable. You should've stuck with Axl."

"Nah," Tracii would say, his eyes (a nondescript shade of brown) shining bright. "Axl was already turning into... Axl. It wasn't fun anymore, dude." He would turn to Phil, nuzzle his forehead against Phil's shoulder. "My favorite singer is in my band."

Phil dwells on this often. He's thought about Tracii and Axl, the way they were before Phil or even Paul came into the picture. Living together. Loving together. Axl flowering under Tracii's influence. Tracii walking out on him without a single regret. He should've dwelt on such things more in 1987.

They were filming a music video out in the desert. During the ample downtime, Tracii led Phil out to an empty train car he'd commandeered as a makeshift hideaway for himself in between takes. The train was just a prop; the hours were long, and Phil's throat was raw from pretending to sing along to his own track. And Tracii, so eager to please and to impress, had set up some throw pillows and blankets, and a bucket of iced beer. It had amused Phil to sprawl across the pillows, press a beer to the hollow of his throat, and revel in the sensation of cold. Tracii crossed his legs and did a sort of spin down to join Phil on the pallet. He could be remarkably graceful; from somewhere Tracii had gotten dance training, a flexible spine, and a dancer's spatial awareness.

It did not surprise Phil when Tracii leaned in and kissed him. Tracii was ravenously sexual, and indiscriminate when it came to lovers. Phil had seen him groping and kissing and slamming partners of both sexes up against the walls of seedy bars and strip joints. He'd even wondered once or twice how far and how deep Tracii's relationship with Axl had gone.

Phil pulled away, laughter bubbling up from his throat.

Tracii frowned. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, it's just--" Phil clapped a hand over his mouth, stifled more laughter, and then fanned himself a bit. "You really want to mix business and pleasure?" His other thoughts went unspoken: You and me? Really?

Boldly, Tracii moved in again and sucked on Phil's neck. "I've wanted you for a long time." His tongue flicked over Phil's pulse. This close, Phil could smell him. Tracii smelled spicy and exotic, like marijuana and sex. The heady scent went to Phil's head. He considered pushing Tracii off him, but reconsidered. If this fractured the band, well, it wouldn't be the first one Phil had ruined by fucking his guitarist. He'd also ruined another by refusing to fuck the guitarist, so either way, Phil decided L.A. Guns' fate was sealed.

Tracii kissed like he wanted to devour Phil. They broke apart before Tracii could draw blood with his sucking, biting kisses. Tracii stripped his clothes off, reaching over to help Phil out of his leather trousers. No sooner had Phil shed his trousers like snakeskin, but Tracii pulled him forward and sucked his cock into his mouth.

Phil arched into Tracii's mouth, murmuring encouragement. He loved eager cocksuckers, and Tracii didn't even ask for it. He was fucking incredible, so aggressive, his nails scratching at Phil's thighs. Phil bit his lip and watched him. Tracii's eyes were closed, his lashes almost touching his cheeks. He looked like he was having the time of his life; anything Tracii did was the time of his life.

Tracii pulled off him with a pornographic popping sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He caressed Phil's sac, his hole, then down his shaft, catching a droplet of precum on his fingertips. He smeared the droplet on one of Phil's nipples, then laved the nipple with his tongue, giving it a little nip and tug before continuing his exploration of Phil's body.

Phil bit his tongue to keep from giggling as Tracii climbed over him, pulling their bodies flush and grinding against him. Were they really going to do this with Tracii on top? Tracii was so much shorter than him that Phil couldn't restrain a snort at the mental image. That caught Tracii's attention, and he paused for a moment, locking eyes with Phil. His eyes were bright and shining as ever, but there was something new there, as though he took Phil's response to his lovemaking as a challenge. He reached over to his own pants and pulled a small packet from his pocket. Some kind of lubricant, no doubt; Tracii tore it open with his teeth, and drizzled the oil over his hand. The oil smelled incredible -- Phil recognized it as part of Tracii's personal scent. It smelled like patchouli, like something hippies made love with, and Tracii began to stroke and play Phil's cock like he did his psychedelic guitar.

Phil blew breaths through his nose, the cords in his neck standing out as he strained with pleasure. Tracii whispered into his ear, "Yeah? Like that? More?", adjusting his grip and stroke with an almost preternatural intuition of what would get Phil off. His hand was so slick that when he slid it lower and probed Phil's hole, that Phil simply spread his legs a bit and urged him on.

Nude, Tracii's body was criss-crossed with tattoos. He even had one on his hip to match Phil's dragon. His torso was hairy, and his cock stood out proudly. It was really quite beautiful, Phil had to admit. Gorgeously shaped, cut like most American boys, cut like any good Jewish boy. And yet, Tracii held back from fucking him with that beautiful cock, content to alternate pumping Phil's dick with finger-fucking his ass.

"Ah, fuck, Tracii," said Phil, perilously close to the edge. Sweat rolled down his face, and his body was primed from Tracii's ministrations. "If we're going to do this, let's do it properly, yes?"

"You want it?" Tracii smiled a little wickedly, lifting one of Phil's legs and kissing his ankle. "Okay. You can have it." He folded Phil's legs, slid up his body, and captured Phil's mouth again, overwhelming him with those hungry, biting, sucking kisses even as he sank his cock into Phil's body.

Phil screamed into Tracii's kisses. Fuck, what was Tracii doing to him? Tracii was fucking him with some rhythm that made stars explode behind Phil's eyelids, made him jerk and clutch at Tracii to try to get more, more friction, more bodyheat, more everything. Fucking hell, why hadn't they done this before? His entire world narrowed down to the slick burn of their bodies meeting and rutting and Tracii's tongue fucking his mouth.

When he came, Phil flailed helplessly, Tracii having to grab one of his hands and hold it down. His cock spurted all over Tracii's belly and chest, and Tracii's solid weight bore him down, connected him to the earth. Gasping, Phil stared up at him. Tracii grinned at him, then grabbed a handful of Phil's hair and began fucking him brutally.

It was all Phil could do to hold on as Tracii ravaged his body, claiming his own pleasure now that he'd gotten Phil off. He sunk his teeth into Tracii's shoulder, sending Tracii into a shaking, moaning orgasm.

They stumbled out of the train some minutes later, having cleaned one another as well as they could. Phil, despite his best efforts, was walking a little oddly. He kept stealing glances at Tracii, the aftershocks of what they'd shared setting his nerves alight.

Afterward, they met up and fucked when they could steal a chance. Phil no longer wondered about the nature of Tracii's relationship with Axl; he did wonder if Tracii was fucking anyone else in their band, but any questions like that just made Tracii laugh at him. "What are we, dating?" he say, his smile a little mocking.

A few weeks after the video shoot, Phil stayed over at Tracii's apartment for the first time. Tracii's home was about what he had expected: a total mess, with broken equipment, piles of dirty laundry, and a bare mattress in a corner, on which Tracii fucked him until he cried with pleasure.

They didn't sleep. It was already near dawn by the time they'd made it to Tracii's place, and after they smoked a cigarette and drank a beer, Tracii was up and about, padding here and there, comfortable in his nudity, as though he didn't know he wasn't beautiful. "Where are you going?" Phil asked him, yawning so that his jaw cracked.

Tracii pulled a surfboard from a closet, winked at Phil, and climbed right out the window. Phil gaped; he was still naked, for god's sake! Leaping up, Phil pulled on his shorts before climbing out the window after Tracii.

Tracii was already halfway down the beach, running full tilt for the rolling waves. "Wait!" Phil called after him, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. "I can't swim after you!"

The wind swept away his words. He watched as Tracii glided away on his surf board, his painted body bare to the elements. Unconcerned and unafraid. Phil splashed waist-deep into the surf, watching as Tracii rode the waves, going where he dared not follow.

A few weeks later, they were in the tour bus, playing a gig at a nameless club on the coast. Faster Pussycat were playing nearby; Kelly had been in the band and he and Tracii were still tight with those guys, so after their gig they parked their tour buses beside one another and all ran off to go drinking.

Phil found himself on the tour bus, contemplating what Tracii did to him, or more accurately, his body. He had never been so well-fucked in his life. He'd brought a lady back to the bus and entertained her, but she'd already taken her leave of him; so sated was he, Phil felt no need to go in search of another bed partner. He wished that Tracii would come and lay beside him.

Familiar voices outside drew Phil's attention, and he peered between the blinds to see Tracii and Taime Downe, Faster Pussycat's singer, stumble arm-in-arm into Taime's tour bus. A heavy weight took its place in Phil's chest. He crept out into the parking lot to find Brent Muscat, one of Faster Pussycat's guitarists, sitting forlornly on the steps to his tour bus. Brent was sitting with his head in his hands.

Cries of pleasure, cries of Tracii's name, drifted out of Faster Pussycat's tour bus.

"You don't wanna go in there," Brent cautioned him. Phil knelt beside him. Brent looked up at him, his sad, strangely innocent eyes so full of pain that Phil forgot his own troubles and felt for someone else.

"Care to join me in my bus?" Phil asked him.

Brent blinked at him. "Ah, sure." He let Phil help him to his feet. As he followed Phil up the steps, he paused for a moment, then asked, "How do you live with that guy?"

Phil sighed. "I'm still learning."


End file.
